


The First Night

by Natasha_Rostova



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Gen, Maitimo just wants to be a good brother, No Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-16
Updated: 2019-04-16
Packaged: 2020-01-14 22:50:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18486058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Natasha_Rostova/pseuds/Natasha_Rostova
Summary: The silence was heavy the night of the first kin-slaying, however, the war in Maitimo’s heart was heavier.





	The First Night

**Author's Note:**

> An updated version of the Drabble I wrote on my DA a few days ago.

It was so dark. Impossible to tell the midday from the depths of midnight. A shiver wracked Maitimo’s spine. Everything about this felt wrong, his soul felt twisted and tied. The sound of waves lapping at the ship did little to ease his mind. The repetitive notion only worsened his sense of dread. Oh how different from the lakes of his homeland. With soft waves and crystal water. Looking upon this new sea, Maitimo only felt sick. Worse yet, Fingon wasn’t here. Or his mother. The only two in the universe who could understand him, were not here. Who does one talk to when their best friend is gone? Why did Father insist their cousins stay behind? 

“It's a frigid night to be above deck.” A voice in the dark. Colder than waves below him. Fëanor. Maitimo barely turns to acknowledge him.

“I don’t mind.” Maitimo tried to be curt, but all he managed was a whisper. A sigh from his atar.

“Nelyo,” A hand on his shoulder. A hand that was covered in blood hours earlier. Stained with innocent lives in a misunderstanding. Or perhaps, a game of his own design. Fëanor always put his hand on Maitimo’s shoulder before offering praise. But now, the gesture seems empty. Or was it too heavy? “Thank you,” Maitimo bit back a sob. What he had done, did not deserve praise. “for standing beside me today. And through this. I am grateful to count you on my side.”

Red. All Maitimo saw was red. Standing beside me? Standing beside me? 

“Do not assume I am here for you.” He jerked out of his atar’s touch, overcome with emotion, Maitimo could not stop himself from the sharp words that followed. “Never. Not even for one moment. Consider that I did this for you.” Brave and foolish as his words were, he could not meet his fathers eyes. He felt something so deep in his soul. Burning hotter than the trees, filling his vision with flickers of flames. His chest tightened.

“I could never choose between you and Ammë. Never.” Finally turning to meet his atar’s gaze, tears stung at the edges of his eyes, how could he have chosen? How? Fëanor seemed unmoved, yet Maitimo could see the hurt behind the mask. Perhaps, when he was younger, Nelyo would have apologized instantly. He never before had wanted to hurt his atar. And yet. Maitimo’s heart was speaking before his mind could regain control. “But I could choose one of my brothers over both of you. Anyday.” Some part of him felt sorry. But the fire in his soul said speak your mind. 

“I’m not here to appease you. I’m not blinded by rage at the Valar. Or Morgoth. Or anyone.” He finally took a step forward. His height has never seemed like a means of intimidation until now. “I am only here to look after my brothers. Do not forget that. I took the oath for them. Not. You.” Maitimo tried to sound brave, but his voice cracked and his cheeks held tear stains. Oh how he loved his father. Oh how he would do anything for him. But this. This was about his brothers. 

This was about Kano, who could not stop sobbing below deck, muttering about blood stained fingertips. This was about Amras and Amrod. Who had not said a word since the battle. This was about Tyelkormo, who with a blank stare, said it was just like hunting deer. This was about Carnistir, who stood in a pile of corpses and didn’t flinch. And this was about Atarincë, who despite his vocal approval, held his son a little tighter when Fëanor walked past.

“Noted.” Ice. Ice pieced though Maitimo’s fire. Cold and unmovable. Stoic and empty. Maitimo’s chest heaved with effort. His passion was met with nothing. His father didn’t even seem upset anymore. He seemed.  
Blank.

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t know if I fully am on the idea that Mae could have yelled at his dad. I’m sure he thought all these things. But it’s hard to say if he’d vocalize his anger. It’s hard to tell. On a normal basis, I’d say he would just internalize it. But in this situation? After the first kinslaying. After leaving his mother. After leaving his best friend? Maybe he’d break. Just this once. But I’m not sure...and I’m took sleepy to think of it anymore.


End file.
